“So, what brings you by?” Mrs. McFarlan peered at her grandson with a keen eye as the cockatiel pecked at itself in a mirror. “Don’t tell me you came for the Oreos.”
“I was wondering if you remembered any of those old stories that Gramps used to tell—the ones about the seekriegers.”
“Oh, those old stories.” Mrs. McFarlan ground her cigarette into the ashtray, where the embers spread and scattered like dying stars. “I swear, Walfang fishermen are the most superstitious men in the entire world.”
Angus lifted his eyebrows at Will. You see?
“So what were they?” Will asked. “Angus said mermaids?”
Mrs. McFarlan studied him for a moment, tapping her nails against the wooden tabletop. “Something like that. But not like mermaids in pictures. No fins or any of that crap. More like wild women of the sea.”
“So you remember the stories,” Angus prompted.
“I remember. Arthur always half believed in them, I think.” The cockatiel had started making a racket, and Mrs. McFarlan crossed to the cage. “Come, sweetie, come out.” She pursed her lips into a wet kiss and offered her finger to the cockatiel.
“So can you tell us about the seekriegers?” Angus pressed.
Mrs. McFarlan cried out, tearing her hand from the cage. A delicate drop of blood traced down her finger where the cockatiel had bitten her. Angus grabbed a flowered kitchen towel and held it out to his grandmother, but she just scowled at him and reached for a paper towel. “Lunatic bird,” she grumbled as she pressed the towel against her finger.
“Sorry, Gran,” Angus said.
“It’s my right hand, too.” Mrs. McFarlan shook her head as the cockatiel squawked and bobbed its head. “Everybody in this family’s crazy.” She narrowed her eyes up at Angus. “What do you want to know about the seekriegers for?”
“Just … I was trying to remember the stories.” Angus’s voice sounded feeble.
“It’s because of me,” Will interjected. “This guy I know thinks he saw one.”
“This guy you know?”
“He may just be on drugs,” Will admitted. “Or nuts.”
“He saw one?” Mrs. McFarlan looked doubtful.
“He heard one,” Will corrected.
The plastic cushion sighed as Mrs. McFarlan sat down heavily. “He heard one,” she repeated. She thought a moment. Then she got up and left the room.
Will heard her footsteps retreat through the living room. Then boards creaked as she ascended the stairs.
Will and Angus looked at each other. The bird let out a squawk, then fell silent.
“Does your grandmother often just walk out of the room like that?” Will asked.
“Not usually.”
“Should we leave?”
“I’m not sure,” Angus admitted. But instead of heading for the door, he crossed to the refrigerator. “Oh, great, lemonade.” He pulled out the carton and checked it. “It hasn’t even expired yet.” He poured some into a glass, chugged it, and poured himself another glass. Then he got down another for Will and filled it half full. “It’s finished, dude—sorry.”
Will pulled out a chair and sat down on the maroon cushion. It was surprisingly comfortable for a folding chair. The table had a cushioned vinyl-covered top, too. Angus sat down in his grandmother’s chair and set the mismatched glasses on the table. Will took a sip of the lemonade. It was cloyingly sweet, coating his tongue with sugar. But the cold felt good.
The boards creaked again, and then Mrs. McFarlan appeared in the doorway. She was tall and thin, like a blade of grass. She wore shorts that revealed skin sagging at the knee and an old pink T-shirt. With her short blond hair that was dark at the roots, she gave the impression of a flower that had stayed too long in a vase and started to fade in the sun. In her hand was a book.
“What’s that, Gran?” Angus asked.
“This was written by your grandfather’s grandfather.” Mrs. McFarlan placed it gently on the table. “It probably belongs in some historical society, but Arthur never wanted to give it away.”
Will reached out and touched the cover with a fingertip. It was hand-pressed leather, worn to a fossil by time. He looked at Mrs. McFarlan, and she nodded her approval. Slowly, slowly, he opened the cover. Turned to a page in the middle. The next had a heading: July 15, 1884. The page was crammed with tight, even writing.
“It’s a captain’s log,” Mrs. McFarlan explained. “Arthur’s grandfather was lost at sea at a young age. They found his boat broken apart on a sandbar not six miles from home.”
“He was the captain?” Angus asked.
His grandmother nodded. “Rowan McFarlan, yes.”
“Have you read it?” Angus asked her.
“I read it,” she told him. “All it proves is that everyone in this family is nuts.” But her voice was hollow.
Will could hardly bear to take his hand from the book. “May I take it?” he asked.
“I think you’d better.” Mrs. McFarlan looked out the window. The light had dimmed in the room, and Will saw that dark clouds were gathering at the edge of the horizon. “At least we’ll get a break from this heat,” she said.
“We’d better get going before we get drenched,” Angus said. He leaned over and gave his grandmother a kiss on the cheek. “Thanks, Gran.”
She turned her sharp crow’s gaze on Will. “I want that book back.”
Will nodded. “Absolutely.”
Angus held open the screen door. Will took a step toward it, but Mrs. McFarlan called him back.
“Keep an eye on that friend of yours,” she told him. “The one who heard the seekriegers.”
“I thought you said they didn’t exist,” Angus said.
She kept her eyes locked on Will. “Keep an eye on him,” she repeated.
“I will.” It felt like a promise between them.
Will and Angus stepped outside into the heavy air. Just as they settled into Angus’s battered Ford, the rain started to pour from the sky. It skimmed over the windshield in a heavy sheet. Angus looked down at the book tucked safely on Will’s lap. “This must be our lucky day,” he said.
“Yeah,” Will agreed, although he wasn’t really sure he believed it.
Will didn’t read the book for the next three days. It simply sat, indifferent, on the top of his bureau. Will was burning to read it. But he didn’t want to read snatches here and there. He wanted to be alone with it, to study it.
But he didn’t have the time. There were sunflowers to collect. The flowers were as tall as he was, and their cordlike stems were coated in prickly fuzz that left his hands raw. He collected tomatoes in the early morning, before the sun became desperate and fierce. He picked the crisp green lettuce and the arugula that could command top dollar with the foodies, then rinsed it in the enormous stainless-steel sink. Will pulled weeds, mulched with hay, made sure the chickens were fed. One morning Will noticed that the smallest one—the one with a twisted leg—had been pecked twice. Will dressed the two small raw wounds and separated her from the rest of the flock. He built a small cage for her with wood and chicken wire, and placed a roost in the corner. He felt sorry for her, alone in her cage, watching the other chickens with the longing of a lonely child kept inside while the others played. But what could he do? If he let her out among the flock, they would peck her to death.
And he worked at the stand. It was high season, and everything was selling. His mother’s freshly baked scones and muffins were usually gone by nine-thirty in the morning. The stack of New York Times newspapers disappeared even earlier. The tomatoes, dahlias, blackberries, zucchini, peppers, yellow squash, corn … Will often stood for five hours straight behind the counter. He didn’t have time to pee, so he tried not to drink anything early in the morning. Tim had once joked that he had to wear Depends on the days he was working the stand. Will was beginning to think that was a good idea.
The fourth morning, Will came downstairs early. His father was already at the breakfast table. His uncle Carl
was there, too. The coffeepot gurgled and sputtered on the counter beside a mug his mother had set out for Will. A flowered china plate sat patiently on the table, a scone set neatly at the center. His mother had placed jars of homemade pear and strawberry jam on the table, along with real butter.
“Hey, Will!” Carl called, grinning hugely. “Good to see you, bedhead!”
His father sat at the other side of the square white table, eyeing him silently. He looked down at his plate, took another forkful of scrambled egg, and dipped it in a mound of ketchup. “You’re lookin’ tired,” Will’s father said.
“Slept badly,” Will said as he poured the dark, fragrant coffee into the mug.
“Didn’t sleep at all, more like,” his father said.
“Teenagers are always up late,” Carl said with a grin.
“Yeah.” Will sank into the chair across from his father’s and tore open his scone.
“Somethin’ botherin’ you?” Will’s father asked. He looked up at Will with a strange mixture of curiosity and trepidation—as if he wanted to hear what was on Will’s mind but was afraid of what it might be.
Will had a sudden desire to tell his father everything. He couldn’t explain it, but he really felt like his father was listening. “Dad, have you ever heard of … sea witches?”
“Witches?”
“Or … seekriegers?”
“What?” Will’s father exchanged a wary glance with Carl. Will’s uncle got busy eating a piece of sausage.
“Never mind.” Will spread strawberry jam on the scone very precisely. He couldn’t meet his father’s gaze. He sounded crazy. He knew it.
“What are you asking?” Will’s father was holding a fork in one hand, a knife in the other, and watching Will intensely.
“It’s just—I’ve heard some stories lately.” Will shrugged and gave a half laugh, trying to make it seem as if the whole thing were a joke. “Crazy stories, I guess.”
His father set his fork and knife down carefully. He took a long pull of his coffee and sat silent as a stone.
Will picked at his scone. It was still warm from the oven—moist and sweet, dotted with black currants. His mother made them every morning, along with muffins and cookies to sell at the stand. She got up at three to bake, then went back to bed at eight for a few hours.
Will usually liked the quiet mornings with his father, and he was always happy to see his uncle. Will’s dad didn’t believe in breakfast cereal—he said it was a conspiracy concocted by large corporations to make people eat garbage in the morning. He always made himself eggs and toast, and occasionally he would fry up some bacon. They would eat in companionable silence, then clean up and get to work.
But this morning the silence made Will squirm. His eye fell on the local newspaper, and he was reaching for it when his father said, “There’s a lot of strange stories in this town.”
“What?” Will was shocked.
“I’ve heard of the seekriegers,” his father said quietly. He looked Will dead in the eye.
“And?” Will turned to his uncle. Carl looked as if he had something to say, but a glance from Will’s father silenced him.
Will’s father took his plate to the sink. His back was turned to Will when he said, “There’s nothing to those tales, Will. Just a bunch of junk for simple minds.” He dried his hands carefully and hung the flowered towel on a hook on the wall. “Come on, Carl,” he said. Then he walked out the back door without another word.
Carl downed another plug of coffee. He gave Will an apologetic smile, then shoved in his chair and hurried after his brother.
That night Will took a shower and crawled into bed. He turned out the light and tucked his feet under Guernsey’s warm body. But he couldn’t fall asleep. The moon shone like a searchlight into his room. It illuminated the bureau, and on top of that, the book, which crouched like an animal on the corner.
Guernsey didn’t move as Will pushed back the covers and crossed the room. The book was heavy in his hands. He climbed back into bed, clicked on the small lamp on the table at his bedside, and turned to the first brittle page.
July 12, 1884
39° 21′ N, 52° 53′ W
I expect we are three weeks from port, fair skies, but the winds do not blow. The ELIZA THOMAS is a fair craft, albeit small, and has the reputation of being a lucky ship, and I’ve enjoyed captaining her.
I haven’t thought to put down anything since our departure from the Azores, as it has been a very ordinary trip. But there was a worrisome occurrence today. I was looking over some charts in my quarters when I heard a clamor abovedecks and rushed to see what was the matter. Two men, Akers and Michaelson, were having a right row. Akers had a knife in his hand, and took a swipe at Michaelson right before my eyes as the other men cheered him on. I demanded to know the meaning of all this, and Akers turned to me with wild eyes. Truly, I felt as though I were looking on the devil himself. With the knife in his hand, it was difficult to stand my ground. Still, I knew my duty as captain, and I did not move.
Michaelson accused Akers of stealing his knife.
Akers is a small man with dark hair and flashing eyes, and he hissed like a viper when he admitted that he did steal the knife. His long nose and furtive manner reminds one of vermin, and he crouched in a ratlike way as he reported, “Ee’s been helpin’ ’isself to extra rations in secret, ee ’as. So’s I just made it a wee more difficult for ’im, didn’ I?”
This aroused grumblings from the men. I felt their tension behind my back. It was true, I had decreased the rations for the past few days, as the winds have been light and we may be out to sea longer than expected. But this disobedience was a foul sign. I asked for a defense from Michaelson, who looked like an animal in a trap and acknowledged taking more than his share. He then sprang at Akers, who lashed out with the knife.
A bright red stripe appeared along the length of Michaelson’s forearm, but he was the larger of the two, and he pressed forward with all of his weight until he was nearly crushing Akers against a barrel. He slammed Akers’s hand against the barrel once, twice, all the while ignoring my command to stop. He kept smashing it until the knife finally fell from the crushed knuckles.
Akers reached for Michaelson’s throat, but Michaelson had the superior strength. I thought for sure that Akers would be killed, but at that moment my first mate, Owen Moore, stepped forward and yanked Michaelson away. Akers stood up and made to lunge at Michaelson again, but two large deck hands stepped forward and caught his arms. Still, he struggled against them like a cat in a bag.
Moore looked at me. He’s a tall man, with the blond hair of the Swedish, and eyes like the calm sea. He moves slowly, but with extreme firmness. He and the men hauled Akers and Michaelson belowdecks.
Around me, the hands were silent. I ordered them back to work and they went, albeit grumbling. I do not like this dawning mood among the men. Resistance and insubordination will not be tolerated on this ship. But I will have a talk with Moore to make sure that the punishment for Akers and Michaelson is swift and harsh.
If we are to be on the sea much longer, there will be greater sacrifices to be made. And resistance could spell mutiny.
July 14
39° 20′ N, 53° 03′ W
The waters have gone strangely calm. Nor does the air move. It is almost as if we are sailing on a sea of glass. I imagine we are like the waterbugs I’ve seen skimming over the surface of a still lake. Their long legs make only the slightest impression on the water. Here we are, like them, simply waiting for the wind to change.
Michaelson received seven lashes for his infraction, Akers five. Moore was efficient and professional, and I am grateful to have such a man as first mate. This was done in full view of the men. Michaelson cried out during his caning, but Akers made not a sound. He merely looked at me with those vermin eyes. His silence was as odd as the breathless wind, and truly sent a cold feeling into the pit of my stomach. Still, I dared not look away, as that would be seen as a sign of weakn
ess among the men.
When it was over, Braithwaite jostled me slightly with his elbow as he passed and did not offer an apology. I gave him a dressing-down, but did not like the look in his eyes.
I sometimes feel the dark glances of the men as I pass by, and I fear they have still not forgotten what happened with Hawken. Their mistrust and anger linger.
But they would do well to remember that lesson. No one is important enough to imperil the entire ship.
No one.
July 16
39° 20′ N, 55° 45′ W
Still no wind. If we do not move soon, I will have to cut rations further. Perhaps we shall find a small island somewhere in which to refill our barrels of fresh water. But I do not wish to refresh the men’s anger.
July 21
39° 20′ N, 59° 39′ W
We’ve gone to half rations. The men are both idle and tired, for there is little to do aboard a ship with no wind, and yet the idleness makes their bones weak.
July 23
40° 01′ N, 63° 52′ W
The sea is moving at last, and we’ve caught a fine breeze. I feel the spirits of the men lifting, like a dark curtain.
July 27
40° 40′ N, 65° 43′ W
There was a desperate knock at the door of my quarters this evening, and when I answered, there stood Moore, and Akers was with him. Akers was wild, shouting that we had to “save the girl.” I looked to Moore for an explanation, but he said that he couldn’t get Akers to make sense. Akers screeched that there was a girl in the water—that we had to save her. We rushed abovedecks and raced to the starboard side, where Akers had seen the girl in the light of the moon. But when we looked out, there was nothing but empty sea below a moonlit sky.
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